Trouble
by Weareahurricane
Summary: Sherlock always knew that feelings can cause trouble, he just never though he'd be the one to experience it at first hand. Sherlock's caught in the middle of a spiderweb so he twists and turns, but he ends up doing a bit more damage than he'd like to. Johnlock, post-reichenbach.


-You really should do something other than playing this violin.- said Molly Hooper gently, with concern clear in her voice. There was no reply and she wasn't even expecting one. With a sigh, she turned around and left the man alone.  
Sherlock was sitting quietly on a bed, his long limbs not moving an inch. He had his legs up on the bed, despite still wearing his shoes. Frowning, he put his head on his knees and sat still, completely ignoring Molly's cat that desperately tried to get his attention by alternating between purring and viciously scratching Sherlock's arms. His dark curls contrasted with the bright orange walls in Molly's guest bedroom so much he looked almost ridiculous. One would surely laugh if it wasn't for the man's pale face, blank look in the eyes and trembling hands.  
His phone went off. He took it into his hand and read the message.  
He's there. –MH  
Sherlock quickly got up and, as he never took his coat off, ran out the door.

He got there quickly- that was an advantage of living with Molly. A short run along the almost empty streets and he was at the cemetery. He went over to the usual spot, the one among few trees that provided a good enough cover, and looked at his grave, black marble slightly shining in the light. It didn't really affect him now, but the first time he did so, it was such a peculiar feeling that it took him 2 days to shake it off. He felt as if he was dead and alive at the same moment, like a Schrödinger's cat, alone and confused in his little box.  
But that wasn't the worst part about being claimed dead. The worst part was seeing John Watson, that is what tore Sherlock apart. The funeral and few days after that were horrible, the few people that knew him personally were devastated, but Sherlock got through it by telling himself that they soon will get over it. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, even Mycroft- they look shattered, but they will be alright. But it wasn't the case. Every time John came to the cemetery he looked like more life had leaked out of him. And Sherlock couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the nagging feeling of guilt, so new and so overwhelming to the detective. He kept coming, unable to stay away, even though sometimes it drowned him so much he wasn't later able to move. It was pure agony, but hell, everybody though he was dead anyway.  
At first he needed to come to the cemetery randomly, hoping to see John, relying on sheer luck. Sometimes he even waited for few hours before coming home, drained and exhausted. But then, he got a simple text:  
I know you're not dead. We need to talk.-MH.  
And so they talked, not for long, but enough to get most things straight. It wasn't an emotional family reunion of any kind, but they both understood each other and finally felt like they belong together. They decided not to see each other in any way before Moriarty's people weren't eliminated and the only contact between them were texts, sent by the older brother whenever the army doctor they both learned to respect showed up at the cemetery. Which was quite often.  
Sherlock looked at John and cringed a little. Even an idiot would be able to tell the man wasn't alright. He looked even more beaten than usually, probably nightmares have worsened. But it wasn't enough, Sherlock knew it wasn't enough. John Watson was a strong man and nightmares couldn't shake him that much, no matter what they were about or how often they occurred. John was talking to the gravestone as always and Sherlock, as always, tried to read his mouth to find out what he's saying. He couldn't see much, John was standing way too far away, but Sherlock could recognize such words like 'dead', 'miracle' and 'please'. It broke his heart, it turned out he has one.  
But Moriarty wasn't right then, at the pool. He didn't burn it out of him, even though Sherlock often wished he did. It wouldn't hurt so much then, a void would be much better than this throbbing, aching organ that kept on beating even though papers had claimed him dead few months ago.  
And then, suddenly, John stopped talking. He looked for the last time at the black stone and turned away. Watching him go, Sherlock realized what was wrong.  
John was using a cane.  
The whole world shattered around the detective.

He couldn't remember how he got back to Molly's apartment. For the first time in his life he felt hopeless and scared, the sight of his friend with a limp, a cane he wished he'd never see again, engraved in his mind. Sherlock could remember the first time he saw the doctor without it. Even though he did his best not to show it then, Sherlock felt pride, in both the doctor and himself. It was the moment when he saw that he actually changed someone's life for the better and for once it made him happy, for once he cared, because that was John Watson and it somehow mattered.  
The door opened and Molly came in, carrying tea and some scones.  
-Please, Sherlock, eat it.  
He looked up at her without a word and studied her face. He could see that she finished her work early today, but went somewhere else before coming home, probably a friend with a dog, judging by the hair on her sweater. Weird, it's the first time he saw the dog's hair, it must be a new friend. Or a new dog. Other than this, she looked tired and worried and Sherlock couldn't stand so many people worrying about him. He took the plate and thanked Molly, who quickly left the room.  
It was very nice of her. Nice is probably quite an understatement and Sherlock had to admit that he underestimated the young woman from the morgue. Not only did she help him with faking his death, she also let him stay at her place, took care of him and made sure he sleeps and eats at least a bit. At first she even tried to get him to solve some cases, she described him certain bodies from the morgue, trying to get him to deduce, but it didn't affect him at all. He didn't want to deduce anything, solve anything.  
It just didn't matter. Why should he deduce? What's the point when there is no flat mate to tell him that it was 'marvelous'? Days were dragging slowly and nothing could serve as a relief for the feelings he experienced. He could remember times at Baker Street when he thought he was bored, pacing around the flat with a gun in his hand and ignoring John's looks of disapproval. He could promise at that time that he'd kill to have some fun. Now, he'd give everything to come back to that moment. Or the one when they argued in Baskerville. Or the one when John got arrested with him. Or the one when John didn't react to the man hanging from the ceiling. Or actually pretty much every moment when people, when John knew he was alive.  
Sherlock wondered how others are doing, since the only person he was seeing was John, except for the one time that he came with Lestrade. Molly said once they all miss him.  
Weird. Sherlock never thought of himself as a man that is to be missed. He never cared about anything because he assumed no one would care if he was to disappear. The world would continue as it was before and there wasn't anything tragic in that, it was only natural for something so big to be untouched by something so small. And now he realized that he is, actually, missed. And, with even bigger surprise, he realized that he misses them too.


End file.
